You smoke yourself, my dear. Then why— I listen for your prompt reply— Why don't you get, as I advise, Some ash-trays of a decent size? You have 'em? Yes, contraptions made Of agate, lusterware and jade, Artistic things with lovely gloss And just about an inch across. I bought some once—an ample type To hold the ashes of a pipe, Cigar and cigarette as well; The largest ash-trays that they sell. What did you do? You raised a roar, You called each tray a cuspidor, Put them outside at various spots And used them as your flower pots. All right! But if you won't agree To buy trays large enough for me You needn't make a single kick If ashes on the rug are thick, And if you find them—as you will— On table, chair and window-sill. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I make my meaning plain, I trust! |